


Call It What You Like

by sal_si_puedes



Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Angst and Smut, Incest, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e14 Captives, Rough Sex, Season/Series 09, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:33:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sal_si_puedes/pseuds/sal_si_puedes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Tran and Kevin’s ghost have just left and Dean is alone in his room, still reeling from Sam’s silent exit and the mess that is the current state of his and Sam’s relationship. When Sam comes to see him a little later, they don’t have a big heart-to-heart because they don’t talk like that. But they most certainly fuck like that.</p><p>(set between 9.14 (Captives) and 9.15 (#THINMAN))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call It What You Like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BaronSamedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronSamedi/gifts).



> This is for [Myri](http://baronsamediswife.tumblr.com/), who dragged me into this whole glorious mess in the first place, so it's all her fault. Thank you! <3
> 
> And a special shout-out goes to [Becky](http://winchestersinthedrift.tumblr.com/) and [Sandy](http://buttheyrebrothers.tumblr.com/), the other two lovely and deliciously wicked Smut Summit ladies. Thank you for being such cheerleaders!

Something in his back twists or maybe it even snaps – Dean’s perception isn’t entirely clear over the pain that shoots through him – when he leans back against the headboard, music seeping into his brain, filling his thoughts up to the brim, overflowing, spilling onto the blankets around him. Making a mess of his beautiful room.

He keeps his eyes open for as long as he can. He doesn’t want to see Sam’s back again, doesn’t want to watch Sam walking away, down those stairs, disappearing around the corner and into that corridor, and he turns the music up another notch so he doesn’t have to hear his former brother’s door fall shut behind him again.

He doesn’t know who he is anymore or what he could possibly be if he isn’t a brother. The only thing that comes to mind is – nothing.

Eventually, his eyelids flutter shut and he lets them. The harsh beats of the music keep touching his consciousness as if through a layer of cotton batting and they somehow blur around the edges and he doesn’t even care about that anymore. He knows that his back will hurt like hell tomorrow if he falls asleep like this but he’s had much worse after days and days and nights on the road or on the rack so all he does is take a deep breath and will his body to relax at least a little. The idea of kicking off his shoes flares up in his mind and to his bewilderment his body follows that line of thought. He kicks around blindly until two dull thuds disrupt the silence between the song that has just ended and the next.

The third thud, less dull and more of a sharp punch, makes his eyes fly open and his upper body snap up immediately. He has his knife in his hand before he even knows it and long before he realizes that it is only Sam who is standing in his room now, the door fallen shut behind him and his fingers still clutched around the brazen handle. His eyes never leave Sam’s as he lets the knife disappear under his pillow again, and Sam’s shoulders sag a little.

Dean slowly takes off the headphones and switches off the mp3 player. Placing the phones and the player onto the bedside table, he rises from the bed and gives his shoes a good kick so they’re out of the way. The stone floor is cold underneath his feet and a shiver runs through his body when Sam takes a step closer. Just one step but Dean is sure he can feel the heat radiating from Sam’s body already. A chilling heat that numbs his lips and cuts all of his words short. All but one, and it’s not even a word, it’s more like something between a croak and a whispered question.

“Sammy.”

He watches Sam take another step towards him and another and another until he’s standing at the foot of the bed on the same side as the one Dean is on. Just a little over six and a half feet between them, and Dean shivers again.

The last time they have done something like this was before Stanford and even though Dean has seen Sam’s body naked on many occasions after that, patching up or checking on wounds, sharing a bathroom, accidentally walking in on—it feels like the first time ever when his eyes drink in one patch of naked skin after another as Sam slowly unbuttons his shirt. 

Sam is beautiful, devastatingly so, but Dean knows that already so he wonders why it comes as such a painful surprise now. Maybe it’s the new scars or the two day shadow shrouding Sam’s jaw or the traces of the burnt-off tattoo. Maybe it’s that glint of anguish in his eyes that Dean isn’t sure he has seen there before.

For a short moment Dean breaks eye contact and looks down at his hands pulling his t-shirt from the waistband of his jeans. They look as if they belong to someone else and Dean frowns. When he looks up again, Sam is naked from the waist up and reaching for his belt buckle. There is a look on his face that Dean can’t quite place but then, all of a sudden, his view is blocked by the t-shirt he pulls off over his head. It takes just a moment, just a blink really and when he can see Sam again he watches how he steps out of his trousers and boxers and only then does he realize that Sam has been barefoot ever since he entered his room, that he must have walked the cold stone-floored hallway with bare feet, and his chest constricts. For some reason he can’t tear his eyes away from Sam’s feet for the longest time but when he finally does, Sam is looking at him with a slight tilt of his head and his palms loosely touching the taut skin of his upper thighs. 

Dean swallows and bows down to pull off his socks before he sheds his jeans and underpants as well. He is painfully hard already and from the looks of it so is Sam. 

He doesn’t know who moves first but the next moment it is lips crushed against lips and one syllable, one word, one breath muttered into his mouth, and he listens closely and he thinks he can hear his name resonating in his veins while his fingers travel down Sam’s spine and cup his ass cheeks like claws. 

Sam’s hands close around Dean’s upper arms and he can already feel the bruises that will form there later. Sam’s knee finds its way between his legs and Dean’s dick is pressed against Sam’s leg, rubbing and grinding, leaving traces of clear sticky fluid on Sam’s scar-adorned skin. 

“Fuck,” Sam hisses into their kiss, when his hips buck as if of their own accord, gripping Dean tighter, pulling him closer still. “Fuck, Dean—“

“Sammy,” Dean moans in return or maybe he just thinks he does, for his tongue is far too far down Sam’s throat for him to say anything at all.

Sam almost tastes like he tasted before Stanford, just a little more of almonds now, and maybe also a little more of gasoline than he already did all those years ago. 

Dean’s stubble feels scratchy and raw against the skin of Sam’s face when Sam goes for his throat and Dean tilts his head to the side to give Sam’s mouth more room and better access.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice hovers over his pulse point before his lips lower a little to devour his skin again. “Dean, I—I—“

He can feel Sam tremble against his chest and his knees go weak with want. He has to hold on to something and he goes for Sam’s face, cupping his jaws and crushing their lips together once more. They’re already bruised and swollen, both his lips and Sam’s, and Dean thinks that he can feel his skin break under Sam’s starved cry of a kiss. 

“Fuck,” he mutters and drags Sam down with him onto the bed, his legs spread and Sam’s weight falling on top of him, knocking the air out of his lungs. At least that’s how he explains the sound that escapes his mouth and the dizziness that suddenly fills his head. 

Sam’s hips thrust against his and Sam is hard and fat and big and throbbing against his groin and for a moment Dean is sure he will come right there and then, just like that, his eyes squeezed shut and Sam’s breath burning away the layers of the skin covering his face one by one. Sam thrusts against him again and when Dean mirrors his movement he lets out a strange huff of surprise and his muscles tense up completely for a fraction of a second, turning him to stone.

Dean doesn’t know if they’re still kissing or already fighting but in some distant corner of his mind he realizes that their kisses have turned to bites at some point of time, trailing along their throats and shoulders and that he is sucking a dark, angry mark into the pale skin just below Sam’s armpit until he thinks he tastes blood. 

Sam is bigger and stronger than he is, Dean knows that, but he manages to wrestle Sam around and onto his back until he has him pinned to the mattress nevertheless, his fingers clawing around Sam’s wrists, pushing them down next to Sam’s face. 

They lock eyes for a moment and Dean feels like falling, like drowning, and he thinks of the pit and the cage and he knows that he is both, of course, he knows that and from the look he sees in his eyes he takes it that Sam knows that as well, that he has always known and that he will never forget. 

He lowers his head, his eyes never leaving Sam’s, and brushes their lips together, mouthing a silent apology. 

Sam nods.

“Sammy,” Dean whispers again and for a while it’s the only thing he still knows how to say. “Sammy…”

He breathes his brother’s name into his mouth and down his throat and across his chest and along the treasure trail and into the dark, coarse hair around his cock. 

“Sammy…”

And again, onto the delicate skin of Sam’s inner thigh. “Sammy…”

Sam’s fingers find their way into Dean’s hair and then from there to his shoulders and this is really going too far now so Dean catches Sam’s hands and sits up on his heels.

“Turn around,” he says, his voice hoarse and raw. “Get—“ He clears his throat and tries again. “Get up. On—on your—“ Dean swallows thickly and Sam nods again.

Dean watches, trying to control his breathing, as Sam does what he has told him to do. When he is on his hands and knees, Sam releases a long, slow breath and spreads his legs a little. 

All Dean can do for a moment is stare at his brother and bite his lips. He watches Sam breathe, his chest and his flanks expanding and deflating in a rapid yet steady rhythm. When Sam shifts and the muscles in his back and legs flex, Dean inhales sharply. His dick twitches and he has to grab himself for a moment, it is that good.

“Sammy,” he mouths and leans forward a little, running his hand over the firm cheeks of Sam’s ass and down his thighs, his strong thighs, feeling every scar, even the tiny, almost invisible ones, and every single hair along the way. The nerve endings in his palm and the insides of his fingers are on fire and touching Sam’s skin seems to be the only way to keep the pain at bay. 

He lets his hands roam Sam’s body and they lead him everywhere. Up and down Sam’s spine, along his sides and even to his shoulder blades and beyond. Leaning forward, he covers as much of his brother’s body with his own as he can. Sam is hot and sweaty against his chest and thighs and his dick nestles between Sam’s ass cheeks, achingly hard and glistening wet with pre-come. He is greedy and his need is excessive and so he reaches everywhere he can, for every bit of Sam he can get hold of, and Sam lets him.

That is what worries Dean the most, what scares him out of his wits, really. That Sam is indulging him like that, offering himself up to Dean’s hungry skin and his seemingly insatiable hands and mouth.

He bends sideways a little and runs his palm down Sam’s arm until it reaches Sam’s hand, Sam’s fingers. He has to stretch to reach there and he only barely registers the slightly amused huff Sam makes when he does so. His fingertips trace the vales between Sam’s fingers, travelling up and down those small, fragile spaces, coaxing, until Sam finally gives in and laces his fingers with Dean’s.

“Sammy,” Dean kisses into the crease of Sam’s armpit and Sam’s fingers squeeze around his as if that is nothing of importance before they let go again and Dean’s hand is free.

His hands tremble as they find their way around Sam’s torso and to his chest, touching and grabbing and searching. He readjusts his position and drapes himself along the long line of Sam’s back again, Sam’s sweaty skin so impossibly soft and warm against his own. His hands splay out and part ways. One travels upwards and roams Sam’s chest for a while and the other journeys south until it comes to rest against Sam’s lower belly and this is when Dean takes a deep, shaking breath.

“Fuck, Sam,” he kisses along Sam’s spine and across his loins. “Sam…” He moves his hands again until the fingertips of his right hand brush over Sam’s Adam’s apple and Sam’s pubic hair tickles the ones of his left. “I—I—Oh fuck, I want—“

When his hands loosely close around Sam’s throat and the base of his cock respectively, Sam moans. It’s a low, almost subdued sound and it’s like a blunt blow to Dean’s gut. Not for the first time he wishes that his hands had healing powers like Cas’s. Not for the first time he wishes he could just push his hand through Sam’s skin and touch him everywhere, really touch him _everywhere_ – just like Cas could or maybe even Death.

Sam moans again, the vibrations of his voice spreading through Dean like a wildfire, when Dean’s fingers tighten around him a little and Dean’s mouth opens for just the gesture of a bite, yet his teeth leave a mark on Sam’s skin somehow anyway.

 _Sam_ , he thinks, _Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sammy, oh god, Sam, I_ am _the pit and I_ am _the cage_ and _I am so, so sorry_ and _please forgive me_ and _brother_ and _my brother, little brother_ and _oh god please_ and _please, please I want—_ and _everywhere_ and _everything_ and, again, _everything, Sam—_

Until he has to disentangle himself, straighten his spine and lean back a little. And to close his fingers around the base of his own cock again for a moment.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath while Sammy arches his back and fails to calm his breathing. “Fuck, Sam…”

He shakes his head, once, twice, quickly, and squeezes his fingers even tighter around his dick. 

Sam is touching himself. Dean notices it only now. He’s fisting his cock with his big, strong hand and just the sight of that, no, just the thought of that, really, causes Dean’s dick to twitch in his fist, and another drop of pre-come oozes from his slit. The mere thought of Sam touching himself like that almost sends him over the edge so he doesn’t dare to look again, not even from the corners of his eyes, when he scoots backwards some inches and sits back on his heels. 

For some seconds he just runs his palms over Sam’s ass, moving his thumbs further and further down the creek on each circling stroke. He can feel Sam shiver and the movement of Sam’s hand around his cock stutters ever so slightly when he finally parts Sam’s cheeks and presses the tips of both of his thumbs against his hole. Biting his lips, he rubs and massages around the edges, withdrawing a little every now and then to watch how the muscles in Sam’s ass and legs flex and how they tighten around his entrance and then relax. Sam’s body is getting ready for him and Dean thinks that maybe Sam needs this as much as he does, that maybe he wants this just as much. 

His hand finds its way to his lips and he sucks two fingers into his mouth, trying to get them as wet as possible. Part of him hates the thought that this will hurt Sam, but the tube of lube he used to keep with him all the time back then, in his bag, hidden in the inside pocket of his jacket, in bedside drawers all over the country, has long gone bad. And a year or two after its expiration date Dean had thrown it into the trash in their motel room, in Lansing, Michigan, or in Buffalo, New York, or whatever godforsaken place they’d been hunting at, so now this will have to do, and another part of him revels in that thought, trembling with anticipation.

He pushes his fingers into Sam slowly, savoring the sensation of Sam’s body yielding to him, opening up bit by bit, letting him in. Sam’s breathing hitches when Dean breaches his body and he holds his breath until Dean stops and waits. They stay like that for some seconds, motionless, frozen. And then Sam moans, long and low, and Dean feels as if he’s falling from the skies. Sam is so fucking tight around Dean’s fingers and the heat radiating from his body gradually washes over Dean, wrapping itself around him like a shroud. He moves, just the tiniest bit, withdraws his hand just a little, just a little, and Sam tightens around his fingers even more, and Dean’s dick twitches against his lower belly. _Sammy_ , Dean thinks and rests his other hand on the small of Sam’s back before he pushes his fingers back in again to the hilt. 

“Come on,” Sam pants when Dean pulls out a little later and spits on his fingers, his other hand still resting on Sam’s back. “Come _on—_ “ And one moment later he has three fingers inside of him and Dean begins to stretch him a little more roughly now, a little more greedily, a little more urgently. “Come on, _Dean_ —“

Dean knows he should prepare Sam a little longer, he knows that Sam’s body needs more time but that knowledge, along with everything else he knows and has ever known, is swept away by a tidal wave of want. He can’t remember wanting anything else that much, ever. Not even the first time they did this, Sam such a fucking little tease and Dean all shaking need and false bravado, not even that matches the desire, the hunger he feels now.

It’s a bit embarrassing how fast he comes after he has buried himself in Sam’s insanely tight heat. Just a few thrusts, it feels too good. Too good to last. But he doesn’t tell Sammy that. 

“Good.”

That’s what he says, that’s what he tells him, again and again, and “so good, Sammy—“

For a brief moment he even feels like a brother again and he thinks that there must be a hint of a smile on Sammy’s lips. 

“Yeah,” Sam moans when Dean thrusts into him again. “Yeah—“

He tries to hold back, to make it last a little longer, but Sam’s voice and the tightness and the heat around his cock drive him over the edge and he pushes all the way in and stills. Waves of climax wash over him and it’s like Purgatory all over again, pure and searing, and the white noise drowns out all thought.

Dean is on his back and two of Sam’s fingers are shoved up his ass before he has even finished coming, and when those fingers press against his prostate, Dean’s back arches and his dick twitches one last time, a strand of sticky semen spurting onto his belly.

The pain when Sam enters him is nothing like he has ever felt and it makes his eyes water and his hands fly up over his head and grab the headboard _hard_. It is nothing like the one other time Dean has let Sam do this, the night before he left for Stanford. This is not the endless, careful preparation or the wondrous look of awe in the eyes of a teenage boy. But when Sam is buried fully inside of him, Dean knows that one thing _is_ the same, and that is what it means. Sam moves and it hurts like hell and Dean has to avert his eyes and blink, clenching his jaws.

Sam slams back in and then he stills. He stills and waits and waits, with trembling arms and ragged breathing and heat, just heat, and when Dean still keeps his head turned to the side after a minute or two, Sam reaches for his face and runs his knuckles over Dean’s cheek once, slowly, before cupping his jaw and turning his head towards him.

“Dean,” Sam says and his voice weighs crushingly heavy. “Look at me.”

Dean has never backed down, never, so he does what Sam is telling him to do, and meeting eyes with Sam again when they’re like this is like a white hot knife to the gut. _Angel’s blade,_ Dean thinks, and _no_ and _Sammy, no_.

“The things I want to do to you,” Sam half moans, half whispers, as he fucks into Dean with long, even thrusts. “The things I want to do…”

He dives in for a messy, open mouthed kiss that takes almost all of what is left of Dean’s breath away.

“I want to fuck you, over and over again, everywhere, until all you can feel is me.” 

All Dean can do is arch his back and close his eyes for a moment. He feels punch-drunk like he hasn’t in a very long time. Not since Purgatory, really. Maybe not ever. But it’s just a short break, because the next word Sam says, whispers, pours out over him, makes his eyes snap open again.

“Dean.”

Sam’s eyes pierce his and Dean’s world narrows down to that pair of eyes and Sam’s dick in his ass. With every thrust Sam sets his body more on fire. With every word he slices away another layer of self.

“I want to fuck you so hard you forget everything else. So hard, so fucking hard, until all you know is me. Until everything you are is—“

“Fuck,” Dean moans when Sam grips his upper arms with fingers of white-hot iron. “Oh fuck, Sammy—“

It doesn’t take Sam long to reach his peak after all of this, fucking into Dean hard and fast, and right before he does he pulls out almost completely and pauses. 

“Dean,” he whispers and Dean comes, just like that, between their bodies, covering his and Sam’s skin with hot, sticky come. His climax takes him completely by surprise, he hadn’t even noticed that he had gotten that hard again, and it’s so overwhelmingly intense it almost feels like being back on that rack. Only this time, he doesn’t scream.

He throws his head back and bares his throat, but that is all. He doesn’t scream this time, not even Sam’s name. All the muscles in his body tense and when Sam pushes back in, mouth slightly open and his whole body vibrating with need, he can feel himself tighten around him even more.

“Fuck,” Sam hisses, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” and a violent shudder runs through him and then another one and then a third and with a strangled huff he empties himself into Dean, trembling and with his eyes squeezed shut tightly, and Dean lets him even though he knows what that means.

Afterwards they hold each other close for a moment, Sam collapsed on top of Dean, his face buried against Dean’s throat, and Dean barely able to breathe, and Dean’s fingers play with Sam’s hair and run up and down his back for a while and Sam lets them while Sam’s breath ghosts over Dean’s sweaty skin as if it is trying to mock a caress.

It is easy for Dean to fall asleep like this.

He startles awake after a couple of minutes when Sam stirs and lifts his head, when the warmth covering him is starting to fade. Sam’s eyes are as dark as a demon’s and Dean swallows heavily. His right hand slowly travels down Sam’s spine once more before it comes to rest on the small of his back. He wills his fingers not to tremble and attempts a tentative smile.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Sam says, his voice still a bit hoarse, and rolls off of Dean and onto his back, running his fingers through his hair.

Dean closes his eyes and exhales shakily.

“I know.”

The next time Dean wakes up, he is alone. For a moment he contemplates cleaning himself up a little and slipping under the covers but instead rolls onto his side and curls up just like that.

And when a couple of days later the visible parts of the marks this night has left on Sam’s body have vanished, the bruises on his lower arms and those above his collar line, Dean packs his bag and gets ready to leave, Baby’s keys heavy in his pocket. Sam is arms-deep in his research and the table in front of him is covered with books. Dean watches him frown at something he has read and slowly turn a page.

“All right,” he says, shooting Sam just the briefest of glances, before turning towards the door. “I’ll be back.” 

 

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song Dean listens to at the end of 9.14, _Lonely Is The Night_ by Billy Squier.
> 
> I'm [sal-si-puedes](http://sal-si-puedes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Come and say "Hi!"!


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